Very True / Not a Laughing Matter

[Brueckmann]

Very True / Not a Laughing Matter

By Heinrich Brueckmann


The story you are about to read is true. I have set it out candidly and have included every pertinent piece of information accurately, to the best of my ability.

Feel free to judge and define me solely on the basis of the actions that I am describing myself here as having committed. I can’t stop you, so go ahead. You’d probably be right, anyway. It all implies a certain moral degeneracy in my character.

***

I was in Riga, Latvia, visiting some family. I am from there, in a roundabout way, though not too distantly. No matter. That’s nothing to do with my story. I was looking for a good time, as any youthful foreign male traveling alone in Eastern Europe is wont to do. I picked up a Riga This Week — “Your Favorite City Guide” - for free from the lobby of the fabulous Hotel de Rome, where I was not a guest.
This magazine is roughly analogous to Time Out in London, or Zitty in Berlin, or any another publication that is circulated in any given city to make visitors and residents aware of what the city has to offer in terms of restaurants, casinos, nightclubs, cigar shops, rental car agencies, and so forth. I’ve kept this particular issue as a souvenir. It was the Riga This Week, #56, for July/August 2002. Feel free to check out the website too, if you doubt the authenticity of this story: < www.rigathisweek.lv >.
I leafed through it as I sat on a bench in the park beside the Freedom Monument in the center of town. I was drinking Aldaris, the Latvians’ favorite national brew, from a plastic one-liter bottle that I bought at the Central Market for probably fifty cents. It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for. “Fantasy, Erotic Massage Salon” offering “fantastic realization” given by “certified personnel with medical education”. Open 24 hours. Matisa Street, 31/2, if you want the precise address. I checked in the attached map section and plotted a route in my head.
I killed the bottle and the rest of the day.

***

I probably walked for three quarters of an hour before reaching the address. It was already almost dark, and this was during the summer, so it must have been around midnight. The exterior of the apartment block looked like Eastern European standard from the 20s or 30s, rendered decrepit after a World War and fifty years of Soviet occupation. Pretty sad, pretty normal, pretty un-pretty.

***

Excitement had given way to anxiety. I decided to suppress it with alcohol, and so ducked into a late-night café I spotted a block away. I think Aldaris is about like 5 percent, but I was too nervous to even feel it. In retrospect, I think that the lady who served me there may have had an idea about what I was up to. Matisa 31/2 wasn’t exactly in a tourist area, and I was clearly foreign. And she couldn’t have failed to know about the little business that was operating just a stone’s throw down the street. But at the time, I was too preoccupied with the immediate future to think about things like that.
As I was sitting in there, slugging the half-liter beer as fast as I could, trying to psych myself up, Seal’s “Kiss from a Rose” came on the radio. Yeah, the same one that was on the soundtrack of one of the Batman movies. For some reason, they all like to listen to American music over there. It was playing softly, coming from a crummy hi-fi behind the counter. To this day it is the song I most associate with the whole event being described here for you. You can laugh, but it perfectly and perversely fits the mood.

***

I called the number that was listed in the Riga This Week from a telephone booth near the entrance of apartment block on Matisa street, number 31/2. I nervously looked up and down the dark street. Half because I’d been the victim of violent crimes in places like this, half because of what I was there to do.
Some older-sounded lady picked up. I asked for English, and she told me to wait. Seconds later, I was talking to “Julia (‘ee-YOU-lee-uh’),” who basically spoke English. She told me to wait in the courtyard and someone would be right out.
After the phone call, I put my Lattelekom card back in my wallet and tried to look casual as I walked into the dark courtyard. After a moment, a lady, probably in her early 40s (but you never can tell with these Eastern Europeans — she could have been much younger) came over to me and led me through a door. She was businesslike.

***

The door opened into the well-lit hallway on the ground floor. It led into a waiting room of sorts, with a television, a coffee table, a large couch, and a few chairs. This place had evidently been renovated. Apparently, they did good business.
The older lady took a seat beside an end table with some kind of cash-box on it. I sat next to her. She asked me to pay (I can basically understand Russian...mainly because I lived in Moscow for two years and Riga for three; I studied German at school, but I picked up a lot of the local vernacular off the street). Russian is a very special language. The men, when speaking, can sound so gruff, so belligerent, callous, angry, masculine. At the same time, listening to Russians sing is like hearing a choir from heaven. Listening to a Russian woman in bed is an experience like none other. Especially when they whisper.
After I put down my 15 Lats (roughly 30 USD) — which bought me exactly one hour - the ladies walked out. I had my choice of any one of four girls who were displaying themselves on the sofa of the lobby for me. They were all about my age — young — and very cute. But the decision wasn’t hard. I did what any red-blooded American bag of testosterone would do: I chose the blond.

***

Now, this could just be egotism talking, but I think there’s some truth in this. I had to point to whichever girl I wanted. I’m sure they get all kinds of old, gross foreign tourists and businessmen in there all the time. But I’m the Captain of a collegiate rowing team; I didn’t feel bad about ‘imposing’ myself on one of them. Of course, this was something they were being paid to do, so by definition, it seems to me, it couldn’t be that much fun for them. But I daresay — now, stop me if I’m being a little over-the-top with my chauvinism here — that at the very least, none of the girls were exactly dreading that I would choose them.
I don’t know why I have included this observation. Must be because I am an egotist.

***

The blond girl — if she ever told me her name, I’ve forgotten it now — got up at my signal and led me into one of the private rooms. I was about to undress (that’s what you do at these places), but she stopped me and told me to go and wash first. It was sensible, and I wasn’t offended — it must have been standard procedure.
Remember now, I had been told that I would only have one hour. What’s that work out to, anyway? Hmm. Fifty cents per minute? At any rate, I didn’t know if my shower time was included in that time or not. So I took the fastest, most frantic shower of my life and was back in the room.
The blond took considerably longer to prepare than I did. I was impatient to get started, so the wait seemed longer than it actually was. I stripped to my boxer-briefs and, after piling all of my clothes on a chair by the door (I had some misgivings about leaving my wallet out like that, but it couldn’t be helped), I had a chance to examine the room. It was lit by a pair of incandescent lamps. I also remember the leopard-print sheets. I’m not joking. And a massive paper fan with Chinese lettering and dragons on it that practically covered the whole wall behind the king-size bed. There was a stereo on the dresser. The room looked tacky enough to be a set on some Spanish sit-com.
Now, you have to remember that I wasn’t sure about exactly what my 15 Lats were paying for. That is, I didn’t know how far the girl was supposed to go. I had never done this, exactly, in Latvia before (though I’d done some other similar things that may or may not have been illegal in that country), and so didn’t know what to expect.
When she entered the room, it actually startled me. I had been thinking. Mostly about how awesome this was and about how brave I was to actually go and do it by myself. I was nineteen years old.
She had just showered too. Her hair was wet. She took off her robe, folded it, and set it on a chair. She hit <Play> on the stereo. The music was all sort of New Age. Heard some synth’ strings. Some sitar. Soft tribal-sounding stuff. Woodwinds. Russian rip-offs of Sting songs. Later on, some Egyptian-sounding stuff.
I was initially very tense. She didn’t speak at first. If she did, it would have been in Russian. The girl broke out the Johnson-and-Johnson Baby Oil. It was the last thing I noticed before she told me to take off my boxer-briefs and lay facedown on the bed. She actually said in English: “Lay down, please.” The accent was so heavy that it was obvious that she had been coached only in a few English phrases because, evidently, that was the language spoken by most of the clientele (pathetic foreign assholes like me).

***

So the blond bid me assume the ‘erotic massage’ position. I laid on my stomach on the bed, naked. A moment later, I felt her weight on the mattress. I couldn’t see anything she was doing from where I was, obviously, so I actually wound up keeping my eyes closed most of the time.
It all started innocently enough. All I had to do was lay there. That’s all I did. She smeared oil all over her hands and my back. Her hands were very strong. She did my neck. Between my shoulder blades, deep. My ribs, hard, squeezing the meat. I listened to her breathing. I’m certain she was consciously breathing extra-hard so that I could hear it.
Then she moved to my left arm. My hand was still a little tense. Maybe ten minutes in. Possibly because of the language barrier, she said nothing but rather picked up my arm and gently shook my wrist until I realized that she was telling me to loosen up. I was actually touched by this gesture. She was clearly in control. The expert.
She got between all the fingers, massaged my palm. Using her hands, she began caressing each finger in a way that I highly suggestive of getting a hand job — only it was, of course, the wrong appendage. She kept it up until it started to hurt the knuckle just a little bit.
Even so, by the time she moved to massage my other arm, I’d forgotten about sex completely. Or, perhaps more accurately, I wasn’t interested in it anymore — at least it had ceased to be my overriding concern. Nevermind that she was naked, and that I was naked, and that we were on a bed. Between her breath, her warm hands and the things she my doing to my body with them, the soft sheets, and the tunes, I felt more ready to fall asleep than anything else.
That was before she went to work on my legs. She worked her way up both legs one at a time, starting at the feet, moving to the calf, then the back of the knee, the thigh, and ass. The strength of her hands did not fail.
Then there came a pause. My eyes were still closed, but I heard her applying oil to herself. It took a moment as her thoroughly smeared her whole body with the stuff.
When she was finished and I was still in a restful bliss, she handled my shoulders, somewhat roughly, in such as way that I unmistakably understood that I was to flip over onto my back. And from them on in, I kept my eyes very much open. And I wasn’t tired anymore.
She straddled me. Her whole body was smooth and gleaming with oil. I could practically see the reflection of my euphoric face in her skin. I’d had to have been a corpse for her appearance not to have affected me, to say nothing of the tactile stimulation. And the girl was legitimately beautiful. Someone you’d notice on the street and wonder about. And here she was. She was probably not much older than me. Could possibly even have been younger.
I wasn’t sure if I was really allowed to do anything back, so I played it safe and just laid there, soaking it all up.
She moved her whole body rhythmically. Swaying sensually. Her smooth, warm, oiled breasts pushed heavily against my thighs, my penis, my chest, my face. She rubbed her chest all over me.
Then she started brushing her pelvic bone against the inside of one of my thighs. I felt the bristles of her shaved pubic hair scratching my skin. Then she began to grind herself heavily on my leg, an inch from my dick. I felt the folds of her skin wiping moisture — maybe just oil, but maybe not — on the sensitive inside of my leg. Her moans gave the action a musical accompaniment that was much more enjoyable than the soft sound coming from the stereo. She was riding me, after a fashion.
That’s when she finally held my dick in her oiled hands. So I realized that the whole thing was to culminate in a hand job. By the way, something about that oil seems to release three times the heat of normal friction. She moved her fingers slowly at first, but they sped up in synchrony with my breathing.
Now, the second her hands touched my dick, I should have nutted all over the two of us right there. Anybody else would have. She was surprised — and possibly impressed or disappointed — that I didn’t. And soon it began to become apparent to both of us that it was taking too long. But something in my head was somehow holding that stupid piece of meat back.
Suddenly, there came a knock on the door, fairly gentle, but insistent. It distracted both of us for a second. Evidently, it meant that our time was just about up.
Then she redoubled her efforts, really getting into it with both hands. Maybe because an unsatisfied customer wouldn’t bring his business back. Maybe because it was a personal issue of self-esteem with her. Maybe she just wanted to see me bust because it would be fun for her. Maybe just because that was her job. Looking at me, looking at the dick. She was incredible. All rubbing and twisting around deftly. Squeezing here just so. Jerking. Never felt anything like it, before or since.
The point is: she did more than what should have been necessary, and she did it very, very well. That much I can say for certain.
I was concentrating like hell on cumming. But I just couldn’t do it. So it wasn’t for lack of either of us trying. But no matter how insane the level of physical stimulation, I could not ejaculate.

***

Naturally, I used my mind to conjure all sorts of things to trick me, basically, into thinking that she was a robot. I had to believe it in order to consummate the whole operation. I’ve come to realize that for me, that is absolutely the only way.
I tried everything. Like: Oh, I can’t see it from here, but there’s a panel in the middle of her back; I can’t believe they can make such great androids these days; there’s no heartbeat in there; you can tell her skin is just plastic; sure am glad they’re letting me test out this prototype; nary a glitch with these new units; the tension of a secret is always highest just before it is revealed, and any second now...
My thoughts were frantic.
But no dice.
No goddamn dice.

***

And shortly the knocking at the door resumed — much harder this time, and for a longer duration. What could I do? What could the blond do?
She sighed and looked at me. Rolled her eyes at the intrusion, perhaps in solidarity with my position. I’m not sure if she meant to reassure me that it wasn’t my fault, or that she shared my frustration. But in the end it was my problem and not hers, and our time had run out.
She stopped. She put her robe back on. She turned off the stereo and exited the room. My breathing returned to normal.

***

Maybe she just thought I was nervous. I wonder what she would have thought of me if she knew the real reason.

***

I got dressed and walked back into the lobby area. A couple of the girls smiled at me, and I tried to look satisfied. Had the blond told them that I didn’t cum? The older lady was there too. Could she have been the one who knocked? That old Super Mario Brothers movie was on T.V., dubbed over in a single, gruff, male, Russian voice. I was familiar with the voice; as inexplicable as it is ludicrous, the same guy apparently did all the voice-overs for all imported U.S. entertainment media. I was offered tea and a cigarette. Took both and left shortly thereafter.
I walked out of that place blue-balled like a motherfucker, and with no good reason at all. Wasn’t the first time that something like that had happened to me, either. Naturally, I tried to kid myself about it later. Like: “oh, well, I must have been nervous,” or “I had just had that beer.” But there’s no way I could convince myself to believe my own reassuring but disingenuous explanations.
It’s amazing how far psycho-pathological reasons go toward explaining sexual dysfunction. Of course, I already knew the real reason. And if you are whom I think you are, then you do too.

***

Who likes being a techno-sexual?

***

Please classify me as a chauvinist, a sick puppy, a pathetic loser, an exploiter of the proletariat, a callous sexist, or whatever other categories of scum to which you think my action recommends me. I’ve been through it all myself, and I’d probably agree with you.

[keraptis]

Wow ... amazing story. Even though it's true, you could do a lot with it as a work of fiction. Certainly it would be easy to imagine some of the directions that a fictional "part 2" would take ...

And by the way I don't think it's dysfunctional at all to find it hard to, ah, let go and enjoy yourself if something important to you is missing. In the case of your story, I wonder ... since the girl obviously didn't speak much English, would she have minded if you started saying things aloud, basically creating an ASFR-related "dialogue" (mostly monologue) to speed you on your way?

I've never been with a prostitute and it's a damn good bet that I never will, but nonetheless I find them fascinating -- especially those that say they cater to fantasies. I wonder if there are some out there that, if presented with an ASFR scenario to role-play, would and could do the job well.

And I wonder if there are even those that would say, matter-of-factly, "No need to explain, I do robots for my customers all the time. How exactly do you want me?"

Nah ... that's probably still exclusively in the land of fiction.

[Brueckmann]

The kind of place Riga is. Just pulled this off of the Riga This Week's site. I'm going back in December (yes, it will be cold).
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

PuPu Lounge

Inspired by the nowadays very fashionable lounge style restaurants in NY and Milan. "Pupi" means breasts in Latvian, and you will definitely see them everywhere: on the wallpaper and live — sexy waitresses shows off their cleavage. Order a dance with a waitress for 200 Ls, fire any of employees for 5,000 Ls or, yes, you can even destroy the bar for a mere 500,000 Ls. DJ sets from Wed to Sat. Chill-out zone and dance floor on the second floor. Opening the menu turned out to be a good practise in how to open a bra!



Main location:
14 Marstalu iela (Old Town)
Open daily 12.00—last guest, Sun. 17.00—last guest


URL:
www.pupu.lv


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
NOTE: 1 Ls = approx. $2.00

[tectile]

I think Mr. Brueckmann is doing something like performance art here.

If I am corect, My hat's off to you yet again.

If I'm wrong you have my apology.

[Brueckmann]

I don’t know how to interpret the almost total lack of response to my latest addition to the genre. I am not whining in search of personal gratification.

I don’t care if anyone liked it or not. I am aware that it didn’t get anybody off. But that’s not how I think this particular story should be evaluated.

I thought I was doing something important for our community by writing this little piece. But I get the feeling that it was consciously avoided. To my knowledge, it is unique in that it addresses a real-life problem I think most of us share. I have to conjecture that the story struck most, if not all, reflective people here too close to home. To my mind, it seems like almost every reader of this board should be able to identify with the theme of my story, if not the specific circumstances. The story confronts reality in a way that I think merits some discussion. My hope was that it could spark off a conversation here about the effects of our fetish in our daily lives. This - discussion our real lives and the role that our fetish plays in them - is something that is avoided like the plague around here. But that discussion would help all of us - if only most of us weren’t, evidently, too mortified to address it. Are you unthinking or afraid?

Let’s face it: nobody writes stuff like this around here. Why not?

Because the FF is a place where men such as us can go to escape the depressing realities of our abnormal psychology. I understand that that’s the idea. But if we all have this fetish in common, isn’t it safe to reason that we all also share the burdens and strains in our normal lives that are inherent in it? The way our imaginations wander? The barriers we have to erect? The lies we have to tell?

And nobody’s willing to talk about it?

What a waste.

[ehy]

I think it's hard to comment because (a) we're all different, and (b) most of us have never been in quite that situation. Personally, I'm not sure I could perform with a prostitute if I tried, and it's so foreign an idea to me that I wasn't sure I had anything useful to say on the subject. (I have no moral objections to the practice, I hasten to add; it's just not something I or to the best of my knowledge anyone I know has done - but I might try it, if I found myself in a place where it was legal and seemed likely to be safe. And where I knew the language so I could ask what was acceptable.)

Leaving that bit aside... I've had the experience of performing just fine with barely a thought of androids; I've had the experience of finding my mind imagining my partner as an android whether I want to or not; I've had the experience of not being able to perform until I started imagining she was one, and I've had the experience of just plain not being able to perform at all. (Sheesh, that makes it sound like I've had a lot more experiences than I have!) I think that this is pretty much normal for everyone with respect to whatever their own personal kink may be. And stress and fear are really good at preventing a guy from performing, so it might just have been that in your case.

There was a time when I was worried I wouldn't be able to perform without technosexual stimuli, and I was very pleased to discover I could. (Does that make me a bisexual of some variety? ) It sounds like you may be experiencing the same anxiety, and if so, you are not alone.

EHY

[Trace Venom]

I feel compelled to rise out of my comfort zone in order to adress Brueckmann, simply because it says a lot about his writing skills that his stories never get me off, but they do get under my skin.

I'm not against prostitution, only against having sleazy tacky fuckwads (such as the ones being happily romanticized by Snoop and MTV) handle the business. I'd be happy if working girls were unionized and in control of their own business. Bottom line? I really didn't have a problem with that aspect of his story, because it felt real and honest, and wether one is seduced or apalled, feeling real is what good art is all about

My personal experience has led me to use my robophilic imagination once so far, a few years ago. Long story short, I caught a small cold, the air conditioning was nasty,I wasn't in my bed, and I had a very horny girlfriend waiting for me to get off. It worked, so I'm guilty as charged for pulling the stunt once of imagining she might short circuit at any given moment, while she had an open panel somewhere behind her neck.

But under normal circumstances I keep "la cosa nostra robotica" separated from the rest of my sex life. My fetish is like the Vatican and Italy: A separate state within a state, each with it's own sovereignty. I have different sets of rules for each and they rarely step into one another. So If anything, Brueckmann brought back a funny memory for me from that relationship.

Tinted Windows on the other hand, fucked me up emotionally, becoming the catalyst for an "Office Space" moment I experienced during the summer. This forum was the last place I expected my hatred toward most sectors of the burgeoise to be legitimized. And being the one having to deal with my bosses shitty credit card-insurance-cellphone-warranty-costumer service minutiae on a daily baisis, I was filled with a seething rage towards the guy in the expensive A.I. car, and I slowly felt identified with the ailing dancer.

So, Mr. Brueckmann, your interest in debating this matter is warranted, but for a guy with a way with words such as you, you should consider (and so should everyone else around here) that your stories do a lot more than push our sexual buttons, they touch nerves. Wether that's a good or a bad thing, it's up to the reader to decide.

Just so you know, I'll always be expecting your story with a slight sense of trepidation, but I'll read it nonetheless. Good prose is good prose, and wether one likes it or not, it never deserves to go unread.

[DrFranklin]

Heinrich,

I read your non-Fiction account of your travel to Riga. I found it a good piece of first-person Journalism, not unlike pieces in Rolling Stone or Playboy. ( And gave me daydreams about visiting Riga myself. ) Like another poster, I didn't find it to have much to do with fembots.

I also have fantasized about a sex partner being a robot. And unfortunately, I've also come across the situation where trying too hard fails.

[keraptis]

I don’t know how to interpret the almost total lack of response to my latest addition to the genre. I am not whining in search of personal gratification.

I don’t care if anyone liked it or not. I am aware that it didn’t get anybody off. But that’s not how I think this particular story should be evaluated.

I thought I was doing something important for our community by writing this little piece. But I get the feeling that it was consciously avoided. To my knowledge, it is unique in that it addresses a real-life problem I think most of us share. I have to conjecture that the story struck most, if not all, reflective people here too close to home. To my mind, it seems like almost every reader of this board should be able to identify with the theme of my story, if not the specific circumstances. The story confronts reality in a way that I think merits some discussion. My hope was that it could spark off a conversation here about the effects of our fetish in our daily lives. This - discussion our real lives and the role that our fetish plays in them - is something that is avoided like the plague around here. But that discussion would help all of us - if only most of us weren’t, evidently, too mortified to address it. Are you unthinking or afraid?

Let’s face it: nobody writes stuff like this around here. Why not?

Because the FF is a place where men such as us can go to escape the depressing realities of our abnormal psychology. I understand that that’s the idea. But if we all have this fetish in common, isn’t it safe to reason that we all also share the burdens and strains in our normal lives that are inherent in it? The way our imaginations wander? The barriers we have to erect? The lies we have to tell?

And nobody’s willing to talk about it?

What a waste.

I understand the disappointment. And yet, I did provide what I felt was a thoughtful response, and never got a response to my response. Anyhow, I did my part.

I have also been appalled by the lack of feedback on this board, but I've learned to accept it. I don't think anybody realizes how many hours of effort went into "The Offer, Part 3." We're talking dozens and dozens of hours over more than a year. Yet the silence it was greeted with was deafening. I tried to solicit feedback as politely as possible, with no success. I felt (feel) about as bitter and disgusted as you do. (And please, anyone who feels like posting something about how you need to do this stuff for yourself, etc., don't waste your time ... I know.)

Taking a look at the "stories" that have sparked (some) response, a lot of it is clearly throwaway fluff that somebody wrote in about 10 minutes for a cheap laugh. No offense, but that stuff is not even any good and I see people saying "Great job, let's have more!" OK, whatever.

As for why there isn't more substantial discussion here about real-life issues, believe it or not the answer is related. The same individual responsible for the lamest, dumbest excuses for "stories" on this message board is also the person who almost single-handedly destroyed the last attempt to get real discussion going here. A few interesting threads were going some months back, but as soon as people started revealing anything interesting about themselves, this person firebombed the whole place with narrow-minded, offensive, and intolerant posts demanding that people stop talking about their personal lives.

Guess what, it worked. And this board hasn't been the same since. I can't remember the last post here that actually piqued my interest and/or challenged me to think, before this one.

This "community" has gone almost completely stale, and it only has itself to blame.

[ehy]

I was going to email keraptis personally, but then decided if he can take the heat of being the first person to say it, the least I can do is back him up publically since I think he's absolutely right.

A few interesting threads were going some months back, but as soon as people started revealing anything interesting about themselves, this person firebombed the whole place with narrow-minded, offensive, and intolerant posts demanding that people stop talking about their personal lives.

Guess what, it worked. And this board hasn't been the same since. I can't remember the last post here that actually piqued my interest and/or challenged me to think, before this one.

This "community" has gone almost completely stale, and it only has itself to blame.

I remember when that happened. For a few weeks this actually felt like a fun place to be, where people were actually talking about interesting stuff that went beyond "Such-and-such a show is going to be on" and "I just posted a new story, does anybody care." And a few people - I can't recall who it was, and don't so much care - threw a hissy fit, and it all stopped. I thought it was stupid at the time, and it had exactly the effect I expected.

I do hope that now that some time has passed, we might start talking about interesting things again, and be willing to open up a little. And if somebody doesn't like reading the more personal posts, guess what - they don't have to.

Frankly, on this particular story, I didn't realize you intended it specifically as a conversation-starter to discuss real-life-type issues, and I suspect many others didn't either. (It's not a bad way to go about it; just not one I've seen used here before.) If it makes you feel any better, almost nobody's followed up on any of the interesting points of my stories either, and I've come to expect and accept that.

For what it's worth (more to keraptis than Heinrich), I think people (including me) tend to be put off by a long story. It's hard to read a long story online - much easier to read a couple of pages at a time, and when it's posted in a message board, well, you're right there already; it's easy to comment if you have anything to say. I've taken to splitting up my long stuff (well, if I were writing any these days) into shorter parts, released separately, so as not to scare folks off. And I try to make sure the story starts with some obvious android or control stuff, since people looking for that tend to stop reading if they get through a screenful and it seems like a plain old mainstream story. Which is not to say that's *good* practice, but it seems from what little evidence I have to be effective practice if you're trying to write for this audience.

OK, that's more than enough for one post! Mostly I just wanted to let keraptis know he's not alone in the dark, then I started rambling.

[DollSpace]

I'm not exactly sure what to say...since I'm only 21 and couldn't relate almost at all to what Heinrich was saying (though it was well written), I didn't post anything. I have been busy with work and have been away from the board for awhile..occasionally posting a snippet of conversation here and there, and most certainly not writing any stories. Though, because I am also an author I can definitely sympathize with a lot of you when you say you hardly get responses...feedback is what makes it for me. That being the case, I have had several good responses on many stories I've written...but a lot in this community have gone quiet. And I also don't tend to respond to stories that don't catch my eye or interest me, regardless of how well-written or amazing they are, because, honestly, I don't have much time to read things nowadays.
I do remember the huge uproar that was caused here awhile ago, and no matter what your personal views I think it reinforced the idea that, this being a fetish board and such, people hide behind screenames and avatars because it just seems natural to do so, since online you can really be whoever you want to be. Anything you don't find desirable about you can be overlooked or not mentioned at all, since this is a world not of the physical but of the ethereal. We're all here for a certain reason, regardless of politics, religion, class, etc, so we all have something in common. Going further than that can (and has) created divisions (unfortunately) in what should be an accepting, strong, cohesive community.

I could probably go on all night, but I'm not feeling my best and what I've already written isn't really well organized, but I felt I should post something.... ^_^;;

Ryn

[GZ02]

I felt that I had to post on this as well.

On the whole, I don’t post here that much but I’ve been reading this thread closely over the past few days and I’m glad this topic of conversation has come up whether people find it offensive or not. The way I see it, and as far as what has been posted, everyone on this board has the same root fascination whether it’s just casual curiosity or a fully-developed, bona fide fetish. In such a community, people should post whatever they damn well please–as long as it pertains to the subject at hand and that it is constructive in its nature. Why would a/some member/s readily criticize and forcefully downplay certain topics that require people to actually evaluate themselves and why they’re in this community? Is it insecurity? Fear? (concerning Keraptis’ observation of what happened in the forum a little while back)

It’s so easy to be a passive observer and go with the flow. Heinrich, what you’ve done here is put forth a personal true-life story that doesn’t have a happy ending, something I think your average Joe wouldn’t even think of posting for fear of embarrassment and/or public banishment by fellow community members. You’ve bared your soul. You’ve openly questioned what it is to have a technofetish in a forum that readily invests itself in mostly the positive and fantasy-based aspects of the subject at hand. It isn’t a pleasant experience when a person looks beyond the fantasy and roleplay and finds something about him/herself that needs evaluation and, in his/her eyes at least, needs to be held in check.

Shouldn’t that also be something to consider in this community? A feeling of mutual support among everyone? Is there a problem being open-minded about a certain issue or other? Maybe not everyone is happy about ASFR, it may be a personal curse others are trying to deal with. There must be more to this forum than a few reworked pictures and cheap 500-word stories (with respect to the ones who actually make great stories and images of course. Everybody here may have a thing about robots but we’re all very much human…we need to hold on to that sense of comradie and compassion…traits that make us very much so.

You deserve a lot of credit, Heinrich! You have my thanks anyway.

GZ

[andoroido]

I don't even remember if it was on this message board, but if the so-called incident of "a few months ago" was when somebody started to open up about their personal experiences as a trans-sexual...and some people were justifiably miffed that such an off topic post was being thrust in our faces.. and that person was encouraged to take their posts elsewhere.. then it's too bad that may have discouraged people from discussing things that are ACTUALLY related to ASFR.

Is this what we're talking about? If not, the ignore the above.

I find Heinrich's story extremely topical and interesting.

andoroido

[Triumph]

The feedback is like the cockroaches: for every one you see there are fifty more hiding behind the walls, man. Look at all the roaches here!

[Brueckmann]

I am very impressed with the outpouring of sentiment thus far. Here I will add something further.

I’ll tell everyone something else about my life as the fetish influences it. Or perhaps I should say controls it.

I am a senior at a private university. I am the captain of its rowing team. In this kind of an atmosphere, as I’m sure everyone is aware, there is not dearth of opportunities for sexual liaisons with the opposite sex. I myself can boast of having involved myself in a number of such encounters. However, I have never once succeeded in ejaculating during sex. Obviously, this is not something that I would ever admit to any of my friends. On the contrary, most of the people I know think I was quite a “player”.

My reputation being such as it was, I have never had any qualms about letting my various partners believe that the deficiency was theirs’.

I later had a girlfriend for a year and a half. I’m amazed that it lasted that long, frankly. We both entered the relationship with the understanding that she was not willing to have sex before marriage. Given my experience with sex, I was only too pleased not to have to deal with that pressure.

Nevertheless, I quickly discovered that she was willing to do everything else (strange morals, this youth today). When the relationship ended (it had nothing to do with physical realities, however), I’m sure that she felt that she was to blame for my sexual inadequacy. Better still, she already had some very pronounced self-esteem problems, which I exploited ruthlessly to protect myself.

But who was I kidding?

I believe that the violence in my stories is a cathartic mechanism for my sexual frustration.

[andoroido]

I am not willing to discuss my personal experinces on this matter.
but I'm always willing to theorize reams of mostly worthless ideas.

It is general wisdom that fetishes can become dangerous, if they are allowed to become the only focus of sexual desire. Fetishists who are "too into" their fetish can find that they can no longer find pleasure outside of their particular fetish.

What is the solution? Maybe just appreciating (wink) the opposite sex as is?
Maybe take a break from ASFR and just check out hot babes?
Maybe self-programming by watching only crappy ASFR with ugly chicks (there's plenty available it seems) alternated with beautiful non-ASFR babes?
Perhaps branching into other fetishes that border ASFR? Maybe that would just be worse, I ain't no professional sex counselor!
Or of course, taking a break from any and all sex for a long time, then see how you do when you jump back into the arena..

The only other thing I can think of is going overboard the other way; and being so strong with imagination that you can imagine just standard human behavior in your partner as gynoid perfection.

Another possibility is engaging in "games" which are not actually ASFR, but which would allow you to more easily imagine your partner is a gynoid,
without revealing your ASFR interest. Especially in the case of shorter term relationships, in which full-blown ASFR fantasies might scare off a newer relationship, but lighter games would just be more interesting for many.
Games involving voluntary freezing, repetition, certain clothes..
A good non-freaky freeze game is to ask your partner to see how long they can "resist" reacting to your touch. (When she gives in, you can imagine her as being "activated" by your touch.)

Of course, maybe a good case is to make innocent-sounding mainstream comments that have an ASFR component in them, and if the partner picks up on the comment and runs with it, you're set.. for example

"You look like you need a recharge.."
"You just keep going and going..."
"You're too perfect, who designed you?"
"You're too much for me, where's your Off switch?"
"You don't have to cook for me, I don't want a Stepford wife!" (of course, you actually DO in some ways, but she might jump into the role just to see what you do)

So, in theory, if she DOES use her imagination, the ASFR roleplay becomes HER idea.. and you may be just an innocent bystander who found out his girlfriends' games turned him on...

You probably shouldn't tell her that it turns you on, she'll figure it out.

Likely, if you use any of these lines more than once or twice, or on the same day.. you really risk revealing yourself... some women are practically psychic, and just might read you saying any of these lines as an unconscious revelation of your subconscious desires, and if you're really lucky, she'll see it as a means to control you by satisfying that desire (of course, you'll be happy) If she thinks she knows things about you that you don't even know about yourself (your "subconscious" desire for a gynoid), she might feel more in control, which is good for you.

.. but maybe that's too paranoid

But then such deception can be quite dangerous in a relationship (especially if you plan it to be long term) However, I tend to believe that there is always some element of deception in any relationship, it's a necessity.

Other ideas?

Of course, you can also search the net for tons of sex advice, some of it from actual professionals!!
And if you do go cold-turkey and give up ASFR, please feel free to send me your collection.

andoroido

[andoroido]

I forgot the big opportunity. If you have the ability, when the Stepford Wives remake comes out, make it your date movie. See it once by yourself first, becuase we all know people like us would totally ignore our dates to watch every second of the movie.

Line up as many dates as possible, and see the Stepford Wives with every potential partner you can.. see if any of them do a Stepford Wife act for you later in the evening

(For this reason I especially hope a new ending has the Stepford Wives "winning"... powerful gynoids in control are acceptable gynoids)

andoroido

[asfr]

I live in Riga

[ehy]

Just a thought - If technophilia for you is about control, even if only in part, there's some overlap between that and BDSM. If there's a BDSM scene where you live, and you're able to get into it (don't ask me how; I haven't a clue) you might find some people there with compatible kinks.

As far as it's controlling you... well, consider me an extremely amateur therapist with my advice being worth just ever so slightly more than nothing. But it sounds as if possibly you are trying too hard to fight it, or maybe seeing the only options as fighting or giving in to it. It may - and I emphasize <i>may</i> - help you, to try to see it as an aspect of you. Something that is as much a part of you as for instance rowing, or whatever your field of study is, or another hobby you have. It's part of who you are, and it's okay that it's part of who you are, and perhaps if you can find a way to accept it you will find it less of a burden.

I found myself being increasingly bothered by my fascination in this area and my secrecy about it a few years back. I decided to tell someone about it - a very good friend, who I could trust with my life, who I knew was a little kinky herself, and who I knew I was not going to sleep with. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life, but I felt a LOT better about it afterwards. It really helped me to come to terms with it, to accept it as a part of me that I didn't have to be ashamed of (even while continuing to keep it secret for good reasons). And answering her questions about it helped me understand it better myself.

[Brueckmann]

I have hypothesized that my sexual frustrations manifest themselves as violence in my stories through some sub/semi/fully conscious mode of catharsis.

However...

Sex and love, for me, are psychologically separated by a huge margin. I know that I could never love an “android”. I include the quotation marks to connote a certain irony, since I know that such an occurrence is impossible anyway. But even under hypothetical circumstances, the fact remains.

But I know that I can love another person. I have (twice…ouch).

So there is clearly a distinction between what I can love and what I can screw. In fact, the two appear to be mutually exclusive.

And this is nothing new. For example, the medieval philosophy of chivalry, heavily influenced by Catholicism, held love and sex strictly apart; polar opposites, in fact. Love is spiritual, pious, selfless, chaste, etc., whereas sex is carnal, sinful, greedy, besotted, etc.
[Also, marriages have historically been arranged, not for love, but for political/economic reasons (Islam, pre/early modern European courts, etc.). Love has been (and even today, often remains) an extraneous factor regarding this commitment in certain cultural settings, including (sometimes) our own.]

So is this without precedent? That,
because of (A): my sexual frustration due to my android fetish, and (B): my need to alleviate that frustration (apparently the only way being through violence towards androids), I find myself in curious situation (C): that I can love another person, but feel hatred towards the object of my lust
?

[Baron]

I have hypothesized that my sexual frustrations manifest themselves as violence in my stories through some sub/semi/fully conscious mode of catharsis.

However...

Sex and love, for me, are psychologically separated by a huge margin. I know that I could never love an “android”. I include the quotation marks to connote a certain irony, since I know that such an occurrence is impossible anyway. But even under hypothetical circumstances, the fact remains.

But I know that I can love another person. I have (twice…ouch).

So there is clearly a distinction between what I can love and what I can screw. In fact, the two appear to be mutually exclusive.

And this is nothing new. For example, the medieval philosophy of chivalry, heavily influenced by Catholicism, held love and sex strictly apart; polar opposites, in fact. Love is spiritual, pious, selfless, chaste, etc., whereas sex is carnal, sinful, greedy, besotted, etc.
[Also, marriages have historically been arranged, not for love, but for political/economic reasons (Islam, pre/early modern European courts, etc.). Love has been (and even today, often remains) an extraneous factor regarding this commitment in certain cultural settings, including (sometimes) our own.]

So is this without precedent? That,
because of (A): my sexual frustration due to my android fetish, and (B): my need to alleviate that frustration (apparently the only way being through violence towards androids), I find myself in curious situation (C): that I can love another person, but feel hatred towards the object of my lust
?

No, B - your frustration comes from the distinction between having sex, and making love. Having sex provides a degree of physical fulfilment, but there is little or no emotinal commitment involved; eg. employing a prostitute, or a "one night stand." The central component is the the act itself; and, over time, it can seem to be mechanical, if you will, because the only "emotion" involved is lust. And lust is just like hunger - you can feed it, and satiate it temporarily, but never really abate it.

Making love, on the other hand, places the physical act of sex in a totally different context, because of emotional involvement. When two people have a deep emotional bond, the act of sex becomes the physical expression of that bond, becase it satisfies both the physical urges, and the emotional needs. And it is much more rewarding, as a result.

It took me 30 years to find my wife. Before I did, I fell in love twice, and was rejected twice. And, being a musician, there was no shortage of willing sex partners, if that was what I wanted (it wasn't - I was much more into the "joys" of intoxication ). Somehow, I managed to hold fast to my ideals, and I survived the bullshit long enough to finally find love. And, true to form, I wasn't even looking for it (neither was my wife), when it happened. I'm not claiming to be an expert on the subject, but I have seen both sides of the coin, and I feel that my observations are reasonably sound. You're not hating the object of your lust, you're hating lust itself, because feeding it with sex, as opposed to love, is psychlogically (and emotionally) unrewarding.

B, it's far better for you to vent your frustrations creatively, rather than by some other, more harmful means. This is precisely one of the reasons I became a musician; no better way to fly off the handle than beating the shit out of my drums! And I get paid for doing so, too! You have a gift in your writing; I've read and enjoyed all of your work that's on the Web, this story / ancetdote included. I think all of the male members here can relate to this one, in some way; it's just a trifle hard to express feelings about it, because it's a delicate subject. And the courage it took for you to bring this out in the open should not be overlooked, either. Well done, my friend!

Have a little patience; nurse your wounds; and display some of that courage, as you wait to find Miss Right - trust me, she's out there somewhere!!

WAKE UP!!! LECTURE'S OVER!!!!

[keraptis]

No, B - your frustration comes from the distinction between having sex, and making love. Having sex provides a degree of physical fulfilment, but there is little or no emotinal commitment involved; eg. employing a prostitute, or a "one night stand." The central component is the the act itself; and, over time, it can seem to be mechanical, if you will, because the only "emotion" involved is lust. And lust is just like hunger - you can feed it, and satiate it temporarily, but never really abate it.

Well said, Baron. I'm also lucky enough to be happily married, so I realize it's easy for me to talk, but with the right person, love not sex becomes the focus. Sex, including sex with any sort of fetish twist, is far more satisfying in the context of love, or at the very least in the context of two people on equal terms, even if there's some dominant / submissive role-playing going on.

B, I'm not sure if you're saying you believe there's a barrier preventing you from finding love ... but if that's what you're saying, then I believe ASFR in itself is NOT that barrier. There may be symptoms of the real problem (only you know what that might be) in the ways you express the fetish, but at its core there's nothing wrong with wanting to feel all-powerful and completely in control for a little while, nor is there anything wrong with wanting to feel the opposite for a while. The right person is someone who cares enough and understands you well enough to let you feel what you want to feel -- during sex and at other times -- while also being someone for whom you can derive satisfaction from returning the favor.

One last thing while I'm on my preachy soapbox is this: it really is important to be comfortable in your own skin, and NOT to look at things like quirky turn-ons and such in a negative light. Most of us keep ASFR a secret just because too many people wouldn't understand, but if you yourself view it as a horrible dark secret, or something to be ashamed of, or evidence that there's something wrong with you, you're doing yourself a terrible disservice. As long as you're not stepping over the fantasy/reality line -- by which I mean literally looking for opportunities to harm or humiliate someone who is not a willing participant -- there's nothing wrong with a control fantasy or with fantasizing that the other person is something they're not.

Good luck in working through this, and don't give up.

[ehy]

Most of us keep ASFR a secret just because too many people wouldn't understand, but if you yourself view it as a horrible dark secret, or something to be ashamed of, or evidence that there's something wrong with you, you're doing yourself a terrible disservice.

Yes. One reason I shared it the first time was to prove to myself that I wasn't ashamed of it. If I couldn't even tell someone who I knew would not hate me for it, then it could only be because I knew it was wrong, and I should work to change it. But I did, and it isn't, and I don't.

[Brueckmann]

B.L.,

I appreciate very much your well-reasoned, well-intentioned, and sympathetic message.

I row. The competitiveness between my teammates is indescribable (there are only so-many seats available in our boats for regattas).

It is torture. But is it a way for me to sub-consciously “blow off [the] steam” that builds up owing to my frustration, or is it punitive (a 10,000 meter piece with a 1:53 split and an 18 stroke rating on the ERG —rowing- machine doesn’t leave you with much energy left to even think about banging anybody)?

Obviously, you can’t answer that question. But I think about it very much. Not knowing only wants to make me pull harder.

[Baron]

B.L.,

I appreciate very much your well-reasoned, well-intentioned, and sympathetic message.

I row. The competitiveness between my teammates is indescribable (there are only so-many seats available in our boats for regattas).

It is torture. But is it a way for me to sub-consciously “blow off [the] steam” that builds up owing to my frustration, or is it punitive (a 10,000 meter piece with a 1:53 split and an 18 stroke rating on the ERG —rowing- machine doesn’t leave you with much energy left to even think about banging anybody)?

Obviously, you can’t answer that question. But I think about it very much. Not knowing only wants to make me pull harder.

You're right, B - only you can answer that question. But I will say that the ASFR connection is more of a symptom, than a root cause. We all have times of sexual frustration, and insecurity; the trick is in how we deal with them. You're on the right track, B - keeping things bottled up is counterproductive - it actually feeds the cycle of frustration!! You'll sort it out, eventually; hang in there!!